Blow Fly

49

MARINO STUDIES the hollow metal door of unit 56. Some twelve inches above the knob is a dead-bolt lock. He lights a cigarette, squinting through smoke at the enemy: a cheap brass knob with a push-button lock and the more problematic single cylinder dead bolt. None of the other doors along the hallway have dead bolts, confirming Marino's suspicion that Benton installed the lock himself. Knowing him, he opted for a jimmy-proof deadbolt that neither a thief nor a hit man nor an aggravated Marino can drill through without a spring-actuated plate sliding shut like a bank window and foiling the drill bit. One security risk that Benton couldn't have done much about was the door frame, which is a thin strip of metal screwed into wood.

Piece of cake, Marino says to himself as he unsnaps a bucktool from his belt and slides it out of its worn leather sheath.

The hinges are the common loose-pin variety, and Marino unfolds a pair of pliers from his all-purpose tool, attacks the pin and works it out of the hinge like a cork out of a bottle. Soon, three pins are on the floor, the door free on the left side. With two powerful yanks, Marino breaks the locks loose from the metal jamb. Inside the apartment, he props the door against the opening to give himself a little privacy. He flips on the overhead lights.

Benton had moved out, leaving nothing behind but food in the cupboards, a refrigerator full of Budweiser and half a bag of trash in the kitchen. May as well grab a beer while I'm here, Marino thinks. The bottle opener is on the counter where Marino saw it last, seeming to welcome him in a generous, affectionate way, like a Christmas stocking. Nothing else is out of place. Even the dishwasher is empty.

Strange.

Benton was careful not to offer so much as a partial fingerprint on windowpanes, tabletops or drinking glasses, dishes, cookware or silverware. Marino continues to hold up objects and look at them in oblique light. Sweep marks of the vacuum cleaner are visible on the carpet. Benton wiped down the entire place, and when Marino digs through the garbage bag, he finds nothing but his own empty Budweiser bottles and the broken glass from the Dos Equis he smashed in the sink. Every piece of glass is clean, the labels wet and soapy.

"What the hell is going on?" Marino asks the living room.

"I don't know," a male voice answers from behind the propped-up door. "Everything all right in there?"

Marino recognizes the neighbor from across the hall. "Go to bed," he gruffly tells him. "And if you and me are gonna get along, you need to mind your own business… what's your name?"

"Dave."

"That's funny, I'm Dave, too, as in t-o, not t-w-o." "T-o-o."

"Sorry, I forgot to bring spell-check with me." Marino glares through the space between the propped-up door and the frame.

Dave appears more curious than frightened, peering in, trying to look around the room. Marino's considerable size blocks the nosy neighbor's view.

"Can't believe the bastard left like this," Marino says. "How'd you like to break into your own damn apartment?"

"I wouldn't."

"Not only that, the joint's a pigpen, and he made off with the silverware, pots and pans, and every bar of soap and roll of toilet paper."

"Silverware and cookware belong to the apartment," Dave says disapprovingly. "But from where I'm looking, the place looks quite tidy."

"Yeah, from where you're looking"

"I always thought he was an odd man. I wonder why he took the toilet paper."

"I only hooked up with him a couple months back, answering his ad for subletting," Marino comments.

He straightens up and steps away from the door, scanning the inside of the apartment again as Dave peers in. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, his cheeks sagging and rosy with broken blood vessels, probably from years of living inside a whiskey bottle.

"Yup," he says. "He never talked, I mean never, not even when he passed me in the hall or we both just happened to open our doors at the same time. There we are, face-to-face, and the most he ever did was sort of give me a little smile and a jerk of his chin."

Marino isn't a great believer in coincidences and suspects Dave listened for Benton to come and go and just happened to open his door when Benton was opening his.

"Where were you this afternoon?" Marino wonders if Dave heard the altercation, a loud one, coming from Benton's apartment.

"Oh, I don't know. After lunch, I sleep a lot."

Drunk, Marino thinks.

"He's the sort who didn't have friends," Dave goes on.

Marino continues looking around, standing near the door while Dave peers through the crack.

"Never saw him have a single visitor, and I've been living here five years. Five years and two months. Hate this place. He seemed to go away sometimes. Since I retired from being the head chef at the Lobster House, I have to watch my pennies."

Marino has no idea how watching pennies has anything to do with the man's mysterious neighbor.

"You was the head chef there? Every time I come to Boston, I eat at the Lobster House."

This isn't true, nor is Marino a frequent visitor to Boston.

"You and the rest of the world, yessir. Well, I wasn't the head chef, but I damn well should've been. I'll cook for you one of these days."

"How long did the weirdo live here?"

"Oh." Dave sighs, his eyes shining through the space as he watches Marino. "I'd say goin' on two years. On and off What was your favorite dish at the Lobster House?"

"Two damn years. That's interesting. Told me he'd just moved in and gotten transferred or something, which is why he had to give up the apartment."

"Well, probably lobster," Dave remarks. "All tourists get the lobster and sop it in so much butter it's a wonder they taste anything but butter, so I was always commenting to the other workers in the kitchen, what was the point of bringing in nice fresh lobsters if nobody tastes anything but the butter?"

"I hate seafood," Marino says.

"Well, we do have mighty fine steaks. Aged one-hundred-percent-prime Angus."

"Aged always worries me. In the grocery store, aged means, spoiled. You know, clearance buggy shit."

"Now, he wasn't here all the time," Dave says. "In and out, sometimes gone for weeks. But no way he'd just moved in. I've seen him coming in and out for two years, like I said."

"Anything else you can tell me about this homo who locked me out and made off with half the stuff in the joint?" Marino asks. "When I find him, I'm gonna kick his ass."

Dave shakes his head and disappointment glints. "Sure wish I could help you out, but like I've been saying, I didn't know the man and I'm glad he's gone, and it's looking like you and me will be great neighbors, Dave Too."

"Thick as thieves. Now you go on to bed. Let me get a few things done in here, and I'll catch you later."

"So nice to meet you. I guess I'll be calling you Dave Too from now on, if that's okay with you."

"Nighty-night."